All posts by Abbie Minard

2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“Strangers” — Emily Curry ’15

Searching, searching, searching.
Trying to find the words to
describe how I feel.

 

The words I find flow through your brain.
Not stopping to be understood but rather
searching for a new destination.

 

Will things ever be the same or
will we always be searching to
find the right things to say?

 

Or will we finally begin to understand
and no longer be strangers
but happy hand in hand?

 

I hope it be the latter
for my hand fits to thine
as a puzzle fits inline.
2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“Phase 1 – Sleep” — Anonymous

Sleep comes normally.
You dream, that’s different
Colors sing in light
Bask in bright white
Emotion lets wild,
Nothing is vile
Creamy white envelopes
Feeling eloped
Dream of other worlds
Greeting you
They want to be with you
The feeling immense
Joy has mass and dense
You can feel it…
Sometimes though
Chaos reigns, destroys, raze
Confused and dazed
Why must a place you love
Become a wasteland of thoughts
But as all things go
The next time you sleep
They’ll all be waiting for you.

 

2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“Love in the Leaves” — Shea Minter ’15

If Grandmother Tree could talk
She would only tell love stories,
Because there is enough tragedy in life
For fleeting flowers to sing of
And enough cruelty in love
For everlasting trees to notice.

 

She has stood through decades
Foliage waxing and waning
As affection is want to do.
She rocks and quakes with whispers
And secrets.

 

It’s true that Grandmother Tree
Is a hopeless romantic
And not every tree would write a romance
If trees were want to write.
But what better subject matter for one
Seen and lived through everything,
Than what is at the heart of everyone

 

The story of an hour
Starts with two performers:
She poured her love into lines
And into the final bow.
What under the spotlight loomed and sweltered
Vanished with the day of curtain.
Actors are a blank canvas
And she wanted to paint him with affection.

 

He, on the contrary,
Distinguished between character and artist
And did not return the sentiments.
He didn’t simply react with indifference,
But burnt the stalks of love at the root.
Her heart hurt with his loathing,
Which was the tale Grandmother Tree told
As her leaves dropped off for the winter.

 

From then on, the girl could only love in summer.
In the sunshine she could kiss and laugh,
Her wound healed in the heat.
But winters she froze her desire,
It felt wrong to love another.

 

She waited like a seed under frost, hoping to be thawed.
The cold numbed her to the desire of a third,
Who pined for her guarded mind.
Like an evergreen he loved in needles
Sharp and surviving
Through flurry and blizzard,
But unable to catch bloom or retreat from green.

 

All this the Grandmother Tree could see
And would share if words were leaves.
How love settles in a way
That entirely befits the magic and
Cruelty of nature.

 

2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“The Ballet of the Brutes” — Connor Valenta ’16

First down,
The calm before the storm,
The players come together like penguins in a snowstorm,
The play is sent in and the players think of their moves, there is no more rehearsal.

 

They line up in their positions set to perform,
The main character lines up and checks to be sure everyone is in their positions and calls for the ball
Just as he is given the ball the music begins,
The brutes begin their moves in perfect rhythm

 

The main character tosses the ball to another and it is caught,
The defense screaming a war cry of, “Toss! Toss!”
The man with the ball running for his life trying to find an opening
But just before he is caught something amazing happens.

 

It’s a trick!
The man with the ball stops and looks to throw downfield,
A receiver breaks loose running downfield,
The ball is thrown and all goes silent.

 

The ball is caught and the audience goes wild,
The receiver crosses the goal line and the music is stopped by the zebra’s loud cry,
The audience gives a standing ovation, for the perfect play,
For the act is over but the ballet continues.

 

2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“Explosions of Mother Nature” — Aine Marie Policastro ’15

The clock strikes 12:02,
The day’s tiredness overcomes me.
My baggy, comforting sweatpants
Cradle my legs in warmth
As I climb under the orange, fuzzy covers of my bed,
eyes drifting closed as my head hits
the white cotton pillow,
my limbs starfishing across my bed
losing myself in a sea
of comforting sheets.

 

But out of the peaceful serene,
The silence is broken.
A pelting sound echoes through the room,
Splashes of water explode against the window
Next to my bed.

 

My eyes open in surprise,
To see the droplets of water rushing
Down the windowpane.
The clouds turn in shade from pure white,
To a now intense black-grey.

 

I wonder if the clouds have been overcome with anger,
Too powerful to keep it inside
Its light, fluffy body,
it must plague it,
enrage it,
forcing it to explode out in tears of frustration,
pelting against my window.
A crack of thunder echoing its raging emotions.

 

Amidst this chaos,
I am enclosed inside the comfort and oblivion
Of my blanket.
Feeling at peace with the world,
Safe from the emotions of nature.
My window now a barrier between the chaos of outside,
And the comfort of inside.
And in the midst of the chaos,
I close my eyes once again,
as the threatening thunder and pelting rain,
Now soothe me to sleep.

 

2015-2016, Fiction, Student Work, Writing

“Cinematic Experience” — Leonard Peace McAllister ’17

Tick Tock. My eyes watched each sway of the hand, over me. He promised he would be here more than…ten ago. I stood stiff with my head dangling. Patted down my skirt. Whilst I raised up my dignity. I walked up to the box office. Greeted by a man. He was dressed in white from head to toe. “One ticket if I may, good sir?” I asked sincerely. “Of course young lady!” he responded.  I received a blank slip from the man. As I made my way to a separate booth, I approached a man in all black. He took my ticket. “It will be returned once your cinematic experience has been concluded. Enjoy.” he stated. “Thank you?” I said confused, this experience being a first of mine. The bright colors that engulf the darkness. The sound of the theater, compressed yet expansive. A new world: a departure. Once I returned to the lobby, I had been given back my ticket. Not so blank as before. Written in dark black, “REJECTION”. I enjoyed the theater and returned many times to escape but the enjoyment was accompanied by these strange words “DENIAL” “GLUTTONY” “DISTRACTION”. “One ticket, please.” I asked with a smile awaiting a new film in anticipation. “Why are you doing this to yourself ma’am?” asked the box office man. He looked up at me directly, a face weathered by time. I had looked but now I saw. It dawned on me, the final conclusion. One more time, I told myself. I tore the blank slip from his hand. Making my way to the booth, the man took my ticket again. I was shined by glowing lights which drew my attention frantically from one spot to the next. Music and noises of another world constantly enclosing me. Seclusion. I felt different leaving the theater. For the first time I looked around. People receiving their slips back before me. So many threw theirs away, but I could never bring myself to it. I was given my slip back…”COWARDICE”. My heart sunk as did the slip to the ground. Spiraling. I felt my confidence drop, the usual effect of these things. A message on the back, “FACE IT”. The tears gently fell but I decided to raise my feet as well as the paper and slipped it into my jean pocket. I practically fell over myself while I ran for the door. Bombarded by overbearing sunlight. The outside. I saw the slip finally. All black with white text, “LIFE”. My cinema was over and IT resumed.

 

2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“My Grandfather’s Garden” — Caldwell Holden ’17

It is in the field of golden clusters, rippling in the wind,
that I see one smart purple weed smirking at me,
like the blood on Queen Anne’s lace,
but bleeding out and over the whole world’s grace.

 

At the end of the goldenrod sit the walnut trees,
drooping with their load of rough fruit,
which also rolls by their knees,
among the always three leafed clover.

 

A ladder used to stretch into the canopy,
far above my short young head,
held by my grandfather’s old hands,
as he shook the world above.

 

I’ve been running lost,
through thick bunches of cattails,
their ornery brown tops scraping my skin,
through bunches of black eyed Susan,
whose prickly dark gaze would chastise me for my ambition.

 

And now that I’m back to the flowers I know,
their image has been distorted,
and the weeds are beginning to overgrow my memories.

 

The sun’s now gone, the golden fields turned black,
so I go back to running unfamiliar paths,
where thorns and barren branches cut me raw.

 

2015-2016, Poetry, Student Work, Writing

“Shadow” — Sydney Jones ’16

A dark figure cast on the floor,
The sun almost at its highest point,
Beams through the translucent wall.
He crouches full of life, eyes locked on the figure,
Head close to the ground,
His tail in the air, waving like a flag.
Over and over he chases the figure,
Until it disappears into the darkness.
Never able to catch it, and
Never realizing that
He is the figure cast on the ground.